The Different Drummer Affair
by RoseLight
Summary: Kuryakin must choose between Duty and Desire


THE DIFFERENT DRUMMER AFFAIR

"If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer…." Henry David Thoreau.

Prologue

Illya Kuryakin bolted upright in bed with a shout, eyes unseeing in the dark, his shudder shaking the small bed.

Her soft, warm arms encircled him at once, her voice calm and soothing. She rocked him until the horror passed. She laid him gently back onto his pillow, kissed his brow, and watched him until she was certain sleep had claimed him again. Only then did she turn to her own needs for sleep and peaceful dreams.

ACT I "...let him step to the music he hears, however measured or far away." Thoreau

"Good morning, Ian," she greeted cheerfully. Her confidence, as she moved around the clinic, gave him hope that sunshine could penetrate the foggy mystery in his mind.

"I'm Ian?" he repeated. "Thank you. I've been wondering." He mulled over the only fact at his disposal. I'm Ian. I'm Ian.

"When they brought you to Father's office, I tried to get your name. All you could say was 'ee—ee—' so I assumed you meant Ian. I christened ye Glen because it's the most peaceful place I know, and Carren because, well, you needed carin' for."

"I seem to have forgotten my manners as well as my name. You are—"

"Bonnie Jean Drummond. Nurse. Midwife. Doctor's daughter. "

"And not to be cliché, but—where am I?"

"McNamara's Island, about 50 miles northwest off the coast of Scotland. 'Tis isolated and dull as mud, but only natives are allowed such observations. We have our pride, y'know."

"And you've been tending me..." he avoided her eyes,  
"all this time?"

"Aye, three weeks."

"You held my head while I retched?" he winced at what he could remember.

"Aye, that. Quite an intimate exercise between folks barely introduced," Nurse Drummond teased gently at his embarrassment. She took his hand. Her touch was cool, calm, capable.

"You've had a hard time, but you're mending well." She looked directly into his face and spoke with such conviction, it gave him strength to believe. With her reassurance, he promptly fell back to sleep.

# # # # #

Illya, now Ian, was hesitant to venture beyond the security of the clinic's threshold. His body had recovered, but his mind was lost; out for a walk, perhaps. Mostly he lay on the cot and brooded. Nothing, nothing familiar. His life, his memory a black hole. Every day that passed, no one claimed him. What kind of person had he been, that no one missed him, searched for him, wanted him back?

But Bonnie Jean came every day, speaking a few words kindly and quietly. Every day, a few steps closer, as if she were taming some wild, wounded animal; tempting him with fresh buttery shortbread or squares of bittersweet chocolate. Her visits became the highlight of his empty days.

"You'd best beware," he warned her, " 'si tu m'apprivoises, nous aurons besoin l'un de l'autre. Tu sera pour moi unique au monde…tu deviens responsible toujours de ce que tu as apprivoise." Suddenly his face twisted with pain and panic. He pounded the pillow with his fist. "How do I know that?" he demanded of her and the universe. "Where is that coming from? Damn, this is excruciating! Everything I can remember is meaningless."

" 'If you tame me, we will need each other," she began to translate. " 'You will become, for me, unique in all the world…You are responsible forever for the one you tame.''

He looked up at her, amazed. "You know Antoine de St. Exupery…"

"My favorite fable. And your surprise is hardly flattering, Sir. My father saw to it that I received a fine education on the mainland."

"Yet you came back here?"

"The city was..." she paused thoughtfully, "crowded. Crowded, noisy, smothering my soul senseless. Life is a challenge here, but there's a purity about it. Weeds and rocks, love and death. Bare essentials. And I'm needed here. 'Tis sweet to be needed."

Her stranger sighed sadly. "Yes. But you know who you are, and where you belong."

"Dear Ian," she reached for him without reservation. He stiffened but did not pull away. "You've been given a great blessing," she continued earnestly. "You have a second chance, a whole new life to build. How many people pray for that? Day by day, to discover your talents and develop new ones. Come along," she tugged at his arm. "You need exercise. Fresh air. Occasional sunshine. By the end of the week, I'll race you up Mt. MacNee."

ACT II "Love must be as much a light as a flame." Thoreau

Two years later…

The petite young woman hummed as she stirred the bubbly pot on the stove, reached tiptoe for the blue stoneware bowls on the high shelf. She set out spoons and mugs and tidied the tiny kitchen as she worked in the shadows.

He stumbled sleepily into the softly-lit room, dropped onto a chair. His eyes were slightly glazed and he gazed quizzically around the room.

"Mornin', Darlin'," she dropped a casual kiss on his blond head in passing. He made no response. "Ian, are ye with me?" There was sharp concern in her question. She knelt in front of him, and lifted his chin to look straight in her eyes, blue on blue.

"I'm not certain." His voice echoed foreign to his own ears.

"It's all right," she crooned. "Father told us this would happen." She began to recite calmly, " I am Bonnie Jean Glencarren. We'll be married two years come April. We live on McNamara's Island. You teach at the village school."

"Bonnie Jean—I know you, and I don't." He tried to banish the sudden desperation in his response.

She patted his knee. "I know you're frustrated." Her heart ached for him. "Your mind will clear. The headaches are mostly gone. The nightmares are much less frequent. We have a good life. I promise."

"Before-?"

She bit her lip but answered him honestly. "We don't know, Dearie. I'm sorry I can't give you a history, but I am determined to give you a future."

She rose and ladled him a steamy bowl of oatmeal. "Best get ready for school. It won't do for Teacher to be tardy."

It was peculiar that he had no personal memory, yet he knew so much academically that he could teach science and music, history and literature. He had picked up the local dialect quickly. It was as if the hand of God himself had set him down on the remote, foggy island, populated with more sheep than students.

He had been so battered and bruised when the fishermen found his body dashed against the harbor rocks, they took him for dead. Dr. Drummond did all he could, but it was his daughter who healed the stranger, by sheer force of will and heart.

"Fine man I am. Can't remember me own wife half the time," he grumbled, and pulled her down on his lap. She patted his blond stubble.

"Eat your oatmeal. Builds strong brains," she teased. His disconcerting lapse into identity crisis dissipated .

Bonnie Jean was right: they did have a good life, when he could focus on it. His body had healed, although he didn't recognize it as his own, and there were scars that he did not remember and could not explain.

Teaching, that made life satisfying. Most of the children here would have to leave the island for work, and would need a solid education to compete. And Ian knew things—without knowing how or why he knew them—but it made him uniquely qualified to assume the school when the ailing Mr. Gould retired.

That position of authority, and his marriage to the island's beloved nurse, automatically granted him status in a closed community usually wary of strangers.

# # # # #

Napoleon Solo had gone through half a dozen partners since headquarters had changed Kuryakin's status from 'missing in action' to 'missing, presumed dead.' Solo had been crazy with grief, and denial and remorse. He had searched relentlessly for his friend, first with Waverly's blessing, and later unofficially, unsanctioned.

HQS finally insisted he return to regular duty.

Solo coasted through several stages. First he careened headlong into hedonism, as if he needed to feel physically alive for both of them. Once back on duty, he took unnecessary risks, because what did life matter compared to a successful mission? His new partners disagreed with his recklessness, and complained to Section One. Finally he crash-landed into a funk. He'd gone thinner, and grayed, and lacked the ego to cover it up. He lost the tang of life that had always defined Napoleon Solo.

Dr. Theodore Mason, Ph.D., MD, UNCLE.

2/11/67 Taped session #3

Napoleon Solo, Section 2 Number 1 Status: Uncertain

Notes to follow.

DR: You realize you are threatening your field status?

NS: So I've been told.

DR: Even your paperwork is not up to its usual standards.

NS: That's because I always foisted it off on Illya. Recent partners have not been so accommodating.

DR: You've been hostile to new partners.

NS: They proved…unsatisfactory.

DR: How so?

NS: None of them are Illya. (sigh) I know the stages of grief, Teddy. Denial, anger, bargaining…why can't I get to the level of acceptance?

DR: It's been my observation, Napoleon, that you've been hiding from the strength of your grief. And when you fear something, avoid it, the more power it gains over you. I have a prescription (sounds of pen scratching on paper, a neat rip from the pad)

NS : (reading) "Remember him"?

DR: It will be painful. But I believe you need to concentrate on Illya for a while, with no one telling you to 'snap out of it' or ' move on.' I want you to go through his effects. I want you to listen to his music, read his letters, have a shot of vodka, walk in the snow. Saturate yourself in memory.

NS : Then what?

DR: Perhaps, once you are convinced you won't forget him, you can move forward without feeling disloyal about surviving."

ACT III "You must live in the present, launch yourself on every wave, find your eternity in each moment." Thoreau

"I'd like to take young Dundee to Edinburgh next week," Ian said across the supper table.

"Oh?"

"Tis a long journey for a lad who's never been across the way. I'd like to walk him through registration, get him settled."

"Ah," Bonnie Jean smiled fondly. "You're so proud of your first graduate."

"Fine lad. He deserves the scholarship." She felt, rather than saw, the twinkle in his eye.

"And you'll have an ulterior motive, Ian Glencarren," she murmured, not raising her eyes from the steamy mutton stew.

"We never had a proper honeymoon."

"Ye dinna like camping out in the glen?" She batted her lashes innocently.

"I distinctly recall an episode of wrestling errant sheep."

"Well!" she sniffed. "If that's all ye recall, then we are fair due for a proper honeymoon. At least that solves one mystery of your origins."

"How's that?" he asked curiously.

"No self-respecting Scot would take a woman he's already won clear across the way to the big city, when he's got a perfectly good feather bed at home…" Her eyelashes fluttered again and she made a long, slow pull at her apron strings.

Ian chased her up the stairs and the stew got cold.

# # # # #

It bothered Ian that Bonnie Jean had given him so much, and he had been unable to commit to the one gift she yearned for. They had discussed babies. Bonnie Jean understood his reluctance, and agreed to be practical and patient. But Ian had seen the sparkle dim in her eyes, although she ducked her head to disguise it.

Maybe she was right. What did the past matter, when the present was so sweetly satisfying? A child would be a promise to the future, freedom from the dread of an uncertain past.

Maybe in Edinburgh, he would tell her to flush the chemist's potions.

# # # # #

"A rather pedestrian assignment, Mr. Solo. No killing, no kidnapping, no commotion, no ka-boom. THRUSH Europe is holding its annual meeting in Edinburgh. You are to observe and report. Your credentials—" Waverly handed Napoleon his latest identity.

"Eh, Sir, you're sure there's nothing else I could do for you, as long as I'm out? Assassinate a stray archduke or two? Creatively acquire some clever chemist?"

"Welll…if it's not too much bother…"

Solo leaned forward in anticipation.

"—I am rather partial to argyle socks. The soft, thick kind. Perhaps in a pleasant pattern of muted heather..?"

Solo sighed. "Right, Sir. Six pairs of socks."

Waverly reared back in his chair. "Thrift, Mr. Solo, thrift! Three pair will suffice. And Mr. Solo," he warned again, wagging his finger, "Low budget. No action."

# # # # #

Having deposited his star pupil in university housing, Ian awaited his wife at the elegant tea room of the classic Wallace Hotel. Bonnie Jean was combing the city for materials unavailable on the island.

A gentleman caught his eye, dark and well-dressed. Casual. Probably American. Something familiar about his stride, the careless confidence as he straightened his tie, crossing the lobby as if he were late—or pursued.

The dark tourist stopped abruptly, cornered sharply and headed diagonally for the side exit.

Ian studied the tourist, although he didn't know why. Several steps later, the dark one ducked into a group and reversed. A man in a drab brown suit kept pace after him. Then several men in drab brown suits and menacing body language converged on the dark one from several directions.

The THRUSH security team, it appeared, had been issued the same instructions as Solo: Low budget, No action. Simply maintain security by public persuasion, not pistols. This was to be a simple annual business meeting, albeit of an extraordinary business. THURSH CENTRAL was waiting on these reports. There was to be no distraction, no commotion.

What happened next was like a ballet choreographed by Rube Goldberg.

"Napoleon!" Ian cried out, and leapt up so suddenly from his chair that it tipped backwards and conked a very distinguished gentleman on his head, dislodging his toupee which plopped into a thick soup.

"Illya?" Solo turned in hope and disbelief toward that voice, and caught one on the chin.

Crystal and crockery crashed. Fists and fish flew. There were shrieks from a well-furred matron as Napoleon grabbed her stole and whipped it like a lasso around the face of a threatening Thrush.

Someone swung past on a chandelier and raked Solo's nose. A wine bottle rolled across the floor and underfoot of a hapless steward. The poor man flailed, lost his balance, and dumped dessert on a perplexed patron.

Clouds of whipped cream frothed and dribbled over his bald pate. His table companion burst into hees and haws. The creamed man wiped the excess calories from his head and smeared it into his fellow's braying face.

Two men ducked simultaneously under opposite ends of a table.

"Napoleon!"

"Illya!"

Turning the table on its side as a shield, they crawled along the far wall, escaping the melee they had created

"Great to have you back from the dead, Partner!" Solo clasped him heartily. "You'll need to teach me that trick after Waverly gets my expense report. Or, you could do my report—for old time's sake? Hey, we've got to get you packed and re-certified and on the next plane to—"

"Napoleon," Ian held up both hands to slow his partner's galloping enthusiasm. "I canna go back."

ACT IV "Simplify, simplify, simplify." Thoreau

"Your name is Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin. You are an agent for the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement. You have a doctorate in quantum mechanics from Cambridge. You are certified to fly Class 3 aircraft, but your driving…"

Solo shuddered.

"That may be who I was," Illya/Ian explained gently. "But I am Ian Glencarren. Schoolmaster on McNamara's Island. Husband to Bonnie Jean." Even as he spoke, his voice began to morph back to the soft burr he'd developed. "I really don't miss the glitter and glamour of city life. Well, perhaps that little jazz club on West 24th…" he spoke wistfully. "But if I were so passionate about my work, why do I not miss it? Or remember it? Getting chased after and shot at and beaten up…doing piles of Someone Else's paperwork…" He shrugged. " It's been two years and the world has survived without Illya Kuryakin. UNCLE has other capable agents. But here, Ian Glencarren is needed. Who's going to shoo McGregor's stray sheep out of me garden? Or raise me bairns-to-be? Who's going to assign poetry and grade math, or sing to the stars and the sea and my beautiful Bonnie Jean? The only valuable thing about Kuryakin's life was his friendship with you. Seeing you—that's what re-integrated my memory. Thankfully, we've found that again."

Napoleon's joy at his reunion with his old friend was now tempered by the growing realization that maybe his old friend did not want his old life back. He closed his eyes briefly, looking deep inside for wisdom and the strength for sacrifice. Illya's eyes had a contentment they had always lacked. His life was full and no longer anonymous. For a moment, Solo envied Illya—no, Ian now—his peace.

"So, what can I do for you?"

"Two things. Kuryakin is dead. Let him rest in peace. Please don't tell anyone you found me. And, if my stuff is gathering dust somewhere, could you ship over my books and my music? I could start a library. I'll name it after you…" he smiled.

"Sure."

Epilogue "Be true to your work, your word, and your friend."

Thoreau

15 December, 1983

Dear Napoleon, if you are still unattached for the holidays, Bonnie Jean and I would be delighted to host you in the land of pipes and plaids.

The children gave us an evening at the Wallace for our anniversary. Still, it will never compare to that afternoon tea years ago. I swear the concierge glared at me in recognition.

Malcolm is following the family medical line. He spends afternoons making rounds throughout the countryside with his grandfather.

Gregory is serious about his music. He is the soloist at the village concert series this year.

Seems impossible that I'll be prepping them for college boards in the next few years, sending them off-island.

Our wee lass Lucinda will be keeping the house merry for some years to come. Thank you for the teddy bear. Lucy won't sleep unless it's in the cradle beside her.

The Solo Library and Coffee House has become 'the' cultural landmark out our way. Surely it's time for the founder to put in his annual appearance.

Looking forward to your visit, Ian

finis


End file.
